Honest and brave
by Ulaanbaatar
Summary: An ambush in a French forest... a painful death... and a fateful sword.


ROBIN HOOD

"Honest and brave"

by ALWrite

Disclaimer: This story is inspired by the film "Robin Hood" as written by Brian Helgeland and directed by Ridley Scott. I do not own any of the mentioned characters or storylines. I merely "borrow" them to expand and interpret a scene from the movie. I sincerely hope that none of the involved artists finds offence in my writings.

My thanks go to Russell Crowe, Douglas Hodge, Cate Blanchett and Max von Sydow for creating the characters.

So this was what dying was like.

It was painful.

He lay on the ground and couldn't move. The leaves of the forest trees swayed above him; the light filtered through them, blinding him occasionally. He could hear the moves and noises of the robbers that had ambushed them around him, but it was too painful to turn his head to look. With the spear stuck in him like it would in a hunted boar he lay prostrate and motionless, and they believed him to be dead, for sure. Which was just as well. He couldn't defend himself any longer. His sword was visible but beyond reach. A reminder of past mistakes and rash, youthful errors.

For ten years he had followed the King on his crusade. During all this time he had been prepared to meet his death. King Richard was known to join his men in battle, to spur them on with his own courage, to take risks with his life – unneccesary risks, sometimes. And it had been his duty to watch the King's back.

And now the King was dead. It was finally over.

During that last private conversation with 'the Lionheart' when King Richard had confessed that he didn't want to head home, he had felt despair. For a moment he had believed that this endless, useless conquest would go on forever. They were in the North of France, so close to the Channel and to England, and Richard still wanted to continue fighting. To evade his mother and his brother he had said, but – more likely – to evade his own country and its people.

It had been Richard's sudden death that had ensured Robert Loxley a passage home...

If it hadn't been for this ambush he would be heading for the coast right now, heading for England and for home...

Home...

That sword.

And the words on its hilt.

In their last quarrel he had accused his father of loving the stonemason and his cause more than his own son. That was why he had taken the sword with him when he had left. To hurt his father. To make sure that there would be _something_ his father would miss, even if it might not be his own son. The truth was he hadn't joined Richard out of religious devotion or even zeal for conquest. He had been running away.

Over time the motto on the sword had stung him, reminded him of home. And so, one night, he had taken a strong wire and wrapped it around he hilt. Gone were the words, and with the wire his grip on the sword had been better – both literally and figuratively.

Only lately the wire had broken, and he had to be careful how he held the sword, or it would rip open the palm of his hand.

The dying man smiled at this thought. His palms were hard now. They weren't easily hurt any longer. But his heart had come to hurt more and more. Hurt with the thought of home. The longer their sieges, the stronger the feeling had become. Homesickness. It quenched every other feeling one might have.

Home.

Nottingham.

Never to be seen again.

And Marion.

He remembered her face: pale, beautiful, ethereal. Like an angel's. So different from the sharp tongue and the quick wit she could display on occasion.

His father hadn't been too happy when he had brought home Marion. A grown woman, not an innocent maid. But their love had been all the better for it. Sweet. Short but sweet.

He wondered how _she_ remembered this brief week of their marriage, those few moments together that had etched indelibly into his own memory. He had wanted so much for them then. But after that fateful quarrel with his father he couldn't stay. And now it was too late...

The slightest move brought on a wave of pain. _Best lie still and dream of her,_ he told himself. He wondered if death was like a sleep. If so, then perhaps he could be dreaming of her when he was dead...

A shadow fell across his face. A man was towering above him. His face was vaguely familiar.

Wasn't this the man who had spoken out to King Richard against the crusade? The man who had told the 'Lionheart' what he didn't want to hear – but had still demanded to know? Robert remembered how King Richard had wanted to find a man that would be both honest _and_ brave. And the archer had proven to be so.

The man had spoken with a Northern accent. Perhaps he knew Nottingham. Perhaps he could take the sword back to his father so that his father might forgive him...

"My sword..."

He barely managed to get the words out. But the man had heard him. He took the sword, knelt down beside him and placed it on his body so that his hand could grasp the hilt. If only he could make this man go to Nottingham, to see his father. Which words could he use to convince him?

"Its value to me is great," he began. "It belonged to my father, Sir Walter Loxley of Nottingham. Do you know it?"

"Aye. I've heard of Nottingham."

_Thank God! He knew. _

"Then fate has smiled on me. You must bring the sword to my father. It will bring me peace."

The man's eyes changed. He slightly shook his head, his look now one of refusal. But that man was his only chance. _He must be convinced..._

"I took it in anger, without his consent. You must understand the bond of love between a father and a son."

"My father abandoned me to the world of men when I was six years old. I know little of the love between father and son."

_Oh no! __The man couldn't... mustn't refuse. He must agree to deliver the sword..._

"I beg you. Say you will."

The archer took a deep breath, heaved a soundless sigh.

"I will."

It was the last Robert Loxley heard. The sounds of the forest grew fainter. _The archer would deliver the sword._ _Perhaps now he could dream..._

THE END


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